See no evil, hear no evil
by Aurelius Nox
Summary: What if John didn't accept Sherlock back into his life after the Reichenbach Fall? What if Sherlock withdrew into himself once more, but secretly longed for a friend that would actually stay this time? He's in for a shock when General Jack Blue moves in to Baker Street, but will this hardened, cold ex soldier be able to break Sherlock's impenetrable shields?
1. Chapter 1

Well, I don't really have an explanation for this, but here goes nothing. I absolutely adore the John and Sherlock pairing, honestly, I worship it. But, as I watched The Empty Hearse, I began to wonder what would have happened had John not accepted Sherlock back into his life. So, I invented a new character called Jack Blue, who like John – I was unable to resist, sorry – was an army doctor, was shot, got sent home, and moves in to Baker Street.

Will most definitely be a multi chapter fic. Will probably be slash, haven't decided yet, and I will be 'pretending' that all those cases Sherlock and John went on didn't happen, instead they will occur with my OC and Sherlock. If you have a problem with this any of the above, then don't read it.

Warning! Completely AU!

Chapter One: Nostalgia of a New Life

In the year 1996 I enrolled at Harwoods University to obtain my doctors degree in Bio-Medical Sciences. I swiftly completed my course with flying colours and was soon snapped up by Saunders Street Doctors Surgery where I remained for a good many years. I was not a man of great patience however, so I handed in my resignation and walked out of the double doors, never to return. I searched for more interesting jobs, although having little success soon dampened the excitement I felt.

I found myself wandering through Charing Cross Station in London, having returned from a holiday on the moors of Cornwall and I was suitably tired from my journey. I seated myself on the old stone bench outside the great building to catch my breath and a poster above me immediately caught my attention, and held it.

It was a Marine. He was holding a gun in one hand while his other pointed at the outside world, daring me to read the caption. So I did.

'Tired of life?' It stated in simple letters. 'Then join the Marines.'

In the following weeks I proceeded to contact the army admissions office and was soon travelling to Devon, where I would complete my training to become a navy doctor. Like University, I flew through my course and was quickly attached to the British 32nd Royal Marine Division as Head Surgeon. The division was stationed in Iraq and before I had the chance to prove my healing abilities I was thrown out into the front lines with my fellow Marines. The war was escalating quickly and my division had advanced deep behind enemy lines. I followed, never lacking behind and never showing my fear. I was scared, as were my fellow officers, but we plowed onward and soon arrived at the army base, successfully reaching safety. I was removed from the fighting and placed with another division – the British 63rd Royal Naval Division – where I would remain as Assistant Surgeon.

I quickly adapted to my new role and carried out my duties with neither question nor complaint. The war soon escalated again on this front and I was placed in the midst of the fighting, this time though I was rescuing the wounded to be treated when I was shot in my stomach. Our positions seemed to switch as I was carried to safety by the soldier I had been returning to base for medical attention. Richards brought me back just as I lost consciousness, and I believe he had all but collapsed beneath me too, unable to handle the sudden dead weight of a fully grown male as well as his injured self.

I was tired, I was in pain, and I was weak from the hardships I had battled through in merely two months, for that was the amount of time I had been in Iraq. The head surgeons at the hospital ordered my immediate removal from the country I had come to hate, my health irretrievable. The following day I was flown back to England where I remained at Kings Hospital to recuperate. Here, my health had improved so far as to enable me to walk around the grounds with only the slight shortage of breath and wheeze in my lungs to hinder my exploration of this quaint little hospital.

In the coming months my wound had healed greatly but still the trauma remained, and thus I was taken to a psychiatrist to discuss my journey through the war. She tried to inform me that I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. I was sure that I wasn't, when I was on the battle field not a shake nor a shiver could be seen on my body, yet, as I sat in her chair, I shook and shivered as if I was in Antarctica. I didn't miss the war; I missed the feeling of having something to do. I suppose I could liken it to a withdrawal from smoking. Sitting idle in this hospital for over a year was killing me slowly but surely.

And so, with my determination to forge another path for myself, I was granted permission from the Health Board of Governors to spend the next six months improving. If I could prove to them that I could cope on my own I would be free to do as I wished – I still had to write a blog though.

My parents had died young, and I had neither a brother nor a sister to visit. I had distant family, but I would not intrude on their lives with my battered war filled one. I was free to do as I wished, living off of my army pension and my savings from when I was a GP in Saunders Street.

I refused to leave London, ignoring the pleading of the nurses to move to the country for a quiet life. I stayed at the Harbour Hotel in Anchor Street, living a comfort filled, but meaningless existence. I spent as much money as I wished, but that changed when I received notice from my bank that my funds had sunken dangerously low. I soon realised that I must leave the Harbour or else I would be bankrupt before my six months were up. I was faced with two decisions: One, I could leave for the quiet life I was promised in the country. Two, I could simply depart and relocate to a much cheaper standard of living. Favouring the latter, I began to pack my meagre belongings and informed the hotel I would be leaving.

Under such circumstances, I gravitated towards the East side of London, where lodgings would be less pretentious and expensive. It was at the moment when I decided I would board in an apartment instead of a hotel that someone appeared on the park bench beside me, and turning around I recognised Richards, who had saved my life in Iraq. The prospect of a decent conversation with a friendly face is a very inviting one to a lonely person in the great crowds of London. Richards had been a close confident of mine before I was shipped back to Britain after my injury, we had lost contact with each other, and I feared his rejection for not making the effort to find him. But, despite this, I greeted him with due enthusiasm, and he the same. In his delight he exuberantly dragged me to the Three Cocks pub by the sleeve of my coat, where he proceeded to order dinner for us.

"Well! I never expected to see you again, my dear Blue!" he said in wonder, as we dug into our meal of Shepherd's Pie. "What happened to you? You walk with a limp and you shake and shiver as if you have fallen through a frozen lake in winter!"

I told him of my journey, leaving out the mundane, uninteresting parts, and had barely finished it by the time our desert of apple crumble and custard rolled around.

"You've been through the ringer by the sounds of it, you poor bugger." He winced sympathetically as I concluded my tale of misfortunes. "Tell me, what are you doing with yourself now?"

"I'm on the hunt for an apartment." I hummed thoughtfully around a delightful slice of apple. "No such luck, yet."

"That's the spirit!" he boomed, I eyed him wearily as the infamous glint of mischief shone in his eyes. "Never give up no matter what the gits throw at you!"

We fell about laughing as he produced an uncanny impression of Captain Appleby.

"You must say, what is it that you are looking for? Anything in particular, old chap?" Richards remarked eagerly.

"Nothing pretentious or expensively decorated, reasonably priced with comfortable rooms." Said I.

"Well, it just so happens that I know of a home that meets the unreasonably high standards you seem to have set." He joked as he leaned back with a sigh, having cleaned his plate of any morsel.

"Heavens above, man! Why didn't you say so? Well, get on with it then. Don't leave me to suffer in silence!" I cried, leaning forward eagerly.

"My neighbour was bewailing herself this morning because she couldn't find anyone to board in the rooms she has to let. Mrs Hudson had two rooms to rent but only one remains open I'm afraid, another lodger has returned to claim the other, and he flat out refuses to share with a roommate."

"Who is the other lodger?" I asked quietly, not daring to get my hopes up.

"A quiet fellow, works in some form of government department – highly confidential, you understand. He earns a pretty penny, but refuses to live above his means, preferring to room in lodgings fit for his purse." He said.

"Gordon Bennet!" I cried. "If it's a lodger she wants, then I'm the man for her. I should prefer having the company of two others than one."

Richards peered at me over his clasped hands, eyebrows furrowed. "You haven't even met them yet." He murmured. "Perhaps you should withhold your opinion, you'll like Mrs Hudson; but you might not like Sherlock Holmes."

"Do not second guess yourself now, Richards." I said, "You inform me of a place to stay and the next thing I know is that you are trying to usher me away from it."

"Oh, heavens no!" he said. "That was never my intention, dear Blue. Whatever have I done? No, I merely meant to warn you. Sherlock Holmes is a little…_enthusiastic_ in his ideas, and is very hush hush about his work, but, despite this, he seems a decent enough man."

"What is he? A Policeman? A Lawyer?"

"I don't pretend to know where he hangs his jacket; I imagine he's something to do with the law." Richards whispered. "I believe he is very high up in any case, extremely smart, able to deduct the slightest shift in your behaviour. He's a bit queer, I tell you! Very strange, indeed."

"Did you never ask him what he is?"

"No, he is not one to be caught out; you're more likely to get caught up in his web spilling your own secrets than his to you." He said. "Holmes is a quiet man, but he is communicative enough if he likes you, hardly speaks two words to me."

"I think I should like to meet him, both of them." I said. "I will not likely find companionship in Mr. Holmes in any case. As I always say, one man's meat is another man's poison."

"Aye, I have yet to meet someone who can stand Sherlock Holmes, you however, might just be able to tolerate him."

"We shall see." Said I. "Where can I meet them?"

"Mrs Hudson is sure to be home by now, unless it's her bingo night." Richards yawned widely. "Holmes is another story. He can be at his rooms from morning 'til night, or else he disappears for days on end. We can catch a taxi there after a drink, if you like?"

"That would be splendid!" I beamed, and the conversation drifted into more mundane subjects.

As the black taxi sped along the narrow streets of London, Richards informed me of a few more particulars of the people I was to meet, and by extension, live with.

"Now, Mrs Hudson is a lovely old lady with a keen sense of humour. You need not worry about her." My companion informed me. "Holmes, on the other hand, well, you mustn't blame me if you don't like him, or he you. I have met him so few times that I daren't acknowledge the man as anything but an acquaintance."

"If we do not get along then I shall not perceive that as a problem." I said. "I am searching for lodgings on the state of the rooms, not on the neighbours."

"Yes…but what if yo-"

"What is wrong with you, Richards?" I snapped. "Is this fellow so frightening that you fear for my well-being? Or have you changed your mind about having me for a neighbour?"

"Oh heavens no! Dear Blue, I seem to have handed you the wrong end of the stick here! My apologies." He said quietly. "Sherlock Holmes is a frightening man, but I would not fear for your well-being. I do not believe he is the type to hurt a fellow intentionally."

"…Intentionally?" I questioned, eyebrow raised.

"I mentioned that he was eccentric and enthusiastic, did I not?" Richards muttered. "He would do anything to solve the impossible. 'Nothing is impossible, merely improbable in the name of science' is what Holmes says. He is the type of fellow who would stick poison in your tea just to witness the effects of it on a human being, not out of malevolence, but out of curiosity of its exact effects. To give him justice, I rather think he would drink it himself so as not to harm another person. He is too scientific and knowledgeable for my tastes."

"He sounds like the type of fellow who harbours a passion for mysteries and knowledge." I said. "I should rather like lodging with someone like him, I have had enough of imbecilic individuals to tide me over into the next life."

"I quite agree with you. Do not say I didn't warn you though, my dear friend." Richards sighed as the taxi pulled to a stop next to a three story house jammed in between a butchers and a bakers shop.

"Welcome to 221B Baker Street." He said as we walked over to the towering house. "Home of the resident Sociopath and kind old lady."

"Why do you call him a sociopath?" I asked as Richards pressed the doorbell.

"Heaven knows, it just seems to suit him. Anyway, you shall form your own opinions of him, do not let my influence sway you if you take a liking to the fellow." As he spoke the door swung open and a small pink whirlwind launched herself at him.

"Oh, Harrison! How nice to see you! Come in, come in. I've just put the kettle on, are you staying for tea? Who's this fine young man?"

I had deduced that this pink explosion must be Mrs Hudson, and if first impressions are anything to go by, I already adored her in the few seconds we had met.

I stepped forwards and introduced myself when it became apparent that Richards was indisposed by her firm embrace, in which his head was pressed tightly into her shoulder.

"You must be Mrs Hudson. I am Jack Blue; Richards mentioned you had a room to let?" I asked politely.

The reaction was instant; Richards was flung out of her grasp and I was being dragged through a dark hallway by my coat sleeve. I could hear my companion chuckling behind me, and I threw a glare at him as I disappeared around a corner.

As it turned out, 221B Baker Street consisted of a three story house. The first floor belonged to Mrs Hudson, the second floor was to be my residence, and the third floor was used by Sherlock Holmes. The second floor had a small furnished bedroom, a single living room with a settee and an armchair, cheerfully decorated, despite the pink interior. So desirable were the lodgings, and so adorable was the land lady, that I entered into contract immediately, without having even met my upstairs neighbour. That very evening I moved my belongings into my new home, and upon having a lovely, nightmare-less sleep, wandered downstairs into the kitchen I had been permitted to use on the first floor.

I entered the – pink – kitchen, noting the tall man bent over the table at the far end of the room. I stopped and evaluated him for a moment, taking note of his concentration, which assured me he would not notice my inspection of his self. He was around six feet tall, and he had a slim but muscled build. He had ebony hair that tumbled over his face in an array of curls and, from what I could see, sharp cheekbones with blue eyes. This must be Sherlock Holmes.

"Good morning, Mr. Blue." A deep voice rumbled across the room, startling me out of my concentration.

As I collected myself, I took note of how he hadn't even spared me a glance as of yet.

"How did you…" I trailed off.

"It was a fairly easy deduction." He murmured. "You are not as light footed as Mrs Hudson, you don't wear her perfume, and," He looked up at me, blue eyes sparking with humour. "I can see your reflection in the mirror." Sherlock Holmes nodded towards the piece of metal that had betrayed my presence.

"Well, good morning, Mr. Holmes." I greeted as I walked over to him. "May I be so bold as to enquire as to what holds your attention so keenly this early in the morning?"

"You may." A smile tugged at his lips as he turned his attention back to the table that was covered in powder of some sort.

I banished all displays of eloquence and decorum as I slouched onto the stool next to him. "What are you doing?"

And suddenly, as if a light bulb had lit up inside the fellow, he positively buzzed with energy and excitement. He spun around to face me with a cry of pleasure. Had he won the lottery, greater delight could not have been shown.

"I have discovered a powder that has the correct amount of adhesion, sensitivity, and flow." He looked at me with bright eyes, assessing my reaction. Which, I am ashamed to say, was not the one he would have liked.

"That's all well and good, my dear man." I said. "But how is this useful?"

"Heavens above!" He exclaimed. "How is this useful? How is this useful? Why, it is possibly a major breakthrough in the science of forensics, fingerprints to be more exact. Can you not see that it will give us an almost infallible way to test subjects?"

"I must admit I do not understand the forensic side of science, I'm more medically based, you see." I remarked.

He peered at me curiously for a moment, and promptly spun back to the table, beckoning me to his side.

"This differs greatly from the regular powders that are used. It is ill advised to tamper with it, but I have express permission to do so from the chemical laboratories." Benjamin Lark murmured, absorbed in his work. "I have found that powdered glass mixed with powdered aluminium flakes increases the performance to alternative powders on both smooth and textured surfaces. Application can be difficult and inconsistent but the result is worth the clumsiness. You must tell me, what do you think?"

"Show me." I replied, leaning over his shoulder. I had to hand it to the fellow; he had interested me greatly – in both his work and his self.

"Watch closely, Mr. Blue." He murmured. "I will dip my finger in honey – like so, and press it against both the smooth wood of the table and the textured material of a belt." He pressed his finger to both items in question, and turned to me in his eagerness to show someone his discovery. I rather got the idea that people didn't listen to him regularly, and that he was a constant source of amusement for them. "I then apply the powder with a glass fiber brush and wait for the fingerprints to develop."

I was still leaning over his shoulder and I could feel Sherlock Holmes positively fizzing with excitement beside me.

"There! There, you see? You do see, don't you?" He beamed, and pointed to the prints that had developed quite clearly with a lovely contrast.

"I do see! I must say, well done Mr. Holmes." I said in awe. "Astounding and confounding, simply extraordinary!"

"The old powder was clumsy and more often than not obscured the print so it was weak to match at best. If this had been invented earlier many an innocently convicted man could have been saved." He growled, and I started at his sudden change in emotions. I did wonder why he mentioned only the innocent men, and not the criminals who had walked free.

"Indeed." I murmured. "Tell me, how long have you been working on this?"

"Hmm." He said thoughtfully, before turning to peer at the silver clock hung high up on the wall. "Possibly three, maybe four hours at the most."

I could not withhold a gasp of shock, what brilliance! I wondered at the mind Sherlock Holmes must possess, for such a delicate experiment should have taken days or weeks, not a mere few hours.

"Criminals are continually walking free, and innocents are continuously convicted of crimes they did not commit. This shall stop, the end to the madness of the justice systems will cease with my discovery, and those in the wrong shall be caught, and those who did nought will be free to live their lives once again." Holmes said dramatically. I could see him getting excited now, eager to share his theories with someone who was willing to listen.

"Shall you be credited with this magnificent discovery?" I asked, for I knew the fickleness of scientists.

"Nay, the chemical lab shall be congratulated for this. I am content however, for this will surely save many an innocent from the cold cells of a prison, and convict those who lay in comfort while another pays for their crimes." He said sadly as he cleared up his experiment.

I must admit I felt anger on behalf of Holmes, to be overlooked for such a discovery was a crime in itself. I pondered at what other marvellous discoveries the poor fellow had made, and if he had been congratulated for them, or if he had been simply pushed aside.

He seemed to have noticed my frustration, for he smiled reassuringly at me and patted me on the shoulder as he passed.

"Do not pity me, dear fellow." He said. "For I am as used to this injustice as you are used to war."

"How did you know that?" I gasped; I had not mentioned my previous profession to him, had I?

"You walk wearily – as if you are ready for battle at a moment's notice. As you entered the room I witnessed you checking all possible exits. You examined me, perhaps to discover if I was a friend or foe. And lastly, you hold a hand to the left side of your stomach which suggests an injury. But what injury could be so severe that you constantly feel the need to press a hand to it? The wound has been with you for some time as the familiarity in which you repeat the action suggests, so it must be a stab wound or a gunshot wound. I favour the gunshot, for a stab wound is a slice and would surely have maimed you for far less time than a bullet. Where would you receive a wound such as this? War obviously; if you had been a mere civilian who had been shot it would have been on the news. Does that answer your question?" He said all of this as if it was plainly obvious to anyone with eyes.

What kind of a man was Sherlock Holmes? How could he deduct things that I had not told him within mere moments?

"You…you are correct." I frowned, would he never cease to amaze me?

"I am rarely incorrect in my deductions." He said, and gestured for me to follow him as he disappeared back up the stairs to his rooms. I thought I heard him mutter 'you remind me so much of John…' but I played it down to me hearing things.

"How do you do it? Were you taught or merely born with this ability?" I questioned as I jogged up the spiralling staircase after him.

"Let us be clear on one thing, Mr. Blue." He said. "I was neither taught nor born with this 'ability,' I consider it to be a part of my anatomy just as you consider your legs to be a part of yours."

"I understand." I didn't, but for now I found it best to humor him.

His rooms were as puzzling as their owner. They were decorated black and white; the floors were tiled and resembled a giant chess board, the walls were black with white patterns swirling in all manner of directions, and the furniture was black leather with white cushions dotted about sporadically. If I am to be honest, my eyes felt quite the strain when examining his quarters.

"Sit down, Mr. Blue." Holmes gestured to the armchair as he sat on the settee.

I sat down, pleasantly surprised to find the armchair of great comfort. I wondered why he had asked me up here, for we had not known each other long enough to be considered anything more than acquaintances.

He looked at me knowingly, having already guessed at the cause for my unease. "Do not worry yourself unduly, Mr. Blue. I merely asked you up here for I find your company refreshing."

"And why is that?" I questioned.

"I…I do not know." He frowned. I could see that he loathed any lack of knowledge. "Perhaps it is because you were genuinely interested in my experiments, or perhaps it is because I find myself, to put it simply, lonely." He said as he got up and wandered over to the window, frowning down into the busy London street below.

"Surely you have friends?" I asked in disbelief. How could a man of such brilliance not have anyone to spend his time with? And then it dawned on me, despite having only known the fellow for merely half an hour, I had already correctly judged his character. "They leave, do they not?" I said slowly. "I mean, they take your deductions the wrong way, they perceive them as insults when you mean quite the opposite."

"How astute of you, my dear Blue." Sherlock Holmes whispered, and when he turned around to face me, I could clearly see the loneliness on his sharply angled face.

I quite lacked friends in London, having lived a rather solitary life until Richards had stumbled across me and I could understand that being on your own could have disastrous effects to one's health. I hefted myself to my feet and strode over to him, hand outstretched in greeting.

"Call me Jack." I said as he shook my hand.

"Jack." He inclined his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "You may call me Sherlock."

Despite the childishness of my actions, I couldn't help but feel proud of my ingenuity which, sadly, only saw fit to show itself once in a blue moon.


	2. Chapter 2

I had seated myself at the large oak table in the kitchen on the first floor, pondering at the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes.

He was an easy man to live with, not difficult in the slightest. His habits were regular, and he was quiet but talkative when the fancy took him. He rose early in the morning, before I had arisen, and he returned after I had retreated to my rooms for the night. I had concluded that he worked for the law, for he had told me himself that his profession was in criminals and justice. He smoked cigarettes, an addiction which I had scolded him for, though he paid no heed to my promises of a premature death by choking on the tar in his lungs. He often barged his way into my rooms to demand a game of Cluedo, after the first few times I started refusing him. He was to logical and philosophic in his conclusions to even begin to cope with the game. I had witnessed him playing the violin with the skill of a master, yet he played the same tune repeatedly – some sad melody that made me want to cry – never changing the tempo or rhythm. Even though he undoubtedly had the skill to do so.

Sometimes he didn't return for days on end, for when a working frenzy consumed him, nothing could sway him from a new investigation. On other days, he would either lock himself in his rooms, or lie on my settee for many an hour with a vacant look in his blue eyes. I had wondered whether he was taking something he shouldn't be taking, but his persona soon pointed the evidence away from that conclusion.

Weeks turned into months and my interest in him hadn't died down in the slightest. His attitude and ability to deduct the slightest shift in a person's routine pushed people away from him, yet his appearance drew them in, especially the ladies. His tall, muscular body and sharp features caused women and men alike – both young and old – to flock to him. Unlike most men in this admittedly fantasy-like situation – he refused their offers of company with a politeness I hadn't known he possessed.

Readers may consider my curiosity of this fellow unhealthy, perhaps bordering on the unnatural. But, if they had met him in person, they would be just as fascinated if not more so. Before the judgement the reader has undoubtedly given me, I plead with you to remember the objectless life I lead prior to this, and of how utterly un-stimulating it was. I have had little to engage and hold my attention until I met Sherlock Holmes, and I do not regret or even try to reign in my intrigue of him, for he is a mystery and I do adore a good puzzle, although I gather that he is not so easily broken, or his secrets so easily revealed. I shall endeavour to recount my encounters with my companion in a detailed writing so as to show the reader the real Sherlock Holmes, and how he is a man who has as many faces as the town hall clock, but, I feel honoured to say that he has allowed me to see the real Mr. Holmes, or simply 'Lock, as I have rechristened him later on in our encounters.

I spent much time attempting to unravel the solid walls he had built around himself – a shield from the harsh society that seemed so ready to label him a freak – but I had little success. He seemed quite determined to be my friend, yet he kept me at arm's length, which only increased my intrigue of him. He was not a lawyer or a police officer. He himself had confirmed this notion with a look of disgust and surprise. He did not seem the type to willingly carry out orders from a superior, neither did he appear to be someone who would enjoy a solitary profession, for I had seen how he craved company, yet physically stopped himself from finding any, excluding Mrs Hudson and I. Yet I had witnessed his mobile phone conversations – not from eavesdropping as he always has it on speaker and one cannot help but hearing when he talks so loud – and I had deduced that he did indeed work for the law, and that the male on the phone was his superior of some kind. He was argumentative, and I had to wonder how an earth he had not been fired. Yet, when I considered his remarkable intellect and zeal for deducting the whole life story of a person he had just met, I supposed that his uses outweighed the lack of manners.

Despite his vast intellect and quick judgement, he had his vices just as any man did. His ignorance was extremely amusing to Mrs Hudson and I. Sherlock lacked the ability to know that the earth revolved about the sun, and, more importantly, how to use the washing machine and the tumble dryer, or any household item actually. When I questioned him on it, his reply astounded me, but sent our land lady into such a fit of laughter that I feared for her health.

"Whatever do you mean? How can a man with intellect such as that which you possess not have the faintest idea on how to use a washing machine?" I asked.

"Do not seem so surprised, Jack." He frowned. "I simply do my best to avoid retaining such mundane knowledge."

"Mundane-" I cut myself off abruptly as a laugh threatened to burst from my throat. Mrs Hudson had already vacated the room overcome by a fit of hysteria. "How can the knowledge of washing your clothes be mundane?"

"I should rather like to retain meaningful knowledge so that I can continue possessing the intellect which carries me through day to day life." He said seriously. He obviously could not see the humorous side of this. "If I filled my mind with mundane household chores where would I be then? I would be no better than you with your simple mind, no wonder you all look so vacant when I speak to you." He frowned, even going so far as to place a hand on my forehead.

"Get off, 'Lock." I batted him away. "Theres nothing wrong with me, or anyone else for that matter. Not everyone possesses your vast intellect, and we all survive in our own ways."

"How so?" He asked.

"You survive by using your knowledge to its full ability." I said. "A politician survives by doing what is best for his or her country, which gains them votes from the public. A soldier survives by learning how to fight for their lives, and a child must learn the norms and values of their society to survive. You see?"

All I received was a grunt as he strode upstairs, deep in thought. I later found him on my settee, using my laptop which was password protected.

"How did you get on that? It has a password." I exclaimed.

"Oh come now, Jack. It wasn't exactly Fort Knox." He said, eyes never leaving the screen.

"You retain the knowledge of how to use a laptop, yet you do not understand how to use a washing machine, which is the far easier of the two." I said, unable to let it go. For to have someone in the twenty first century unable to use such a simple household item was unheard of.

"For heaven's sake, Blue!" He snapped. "It would not make a blind bit of difference to either me or my work if a washing machine was the hardest item to use on earth because I would still not see how it would get me through everyday life."

For a moment I was tempted to ask him what his work might be, but his manner and current temperament convinced me that the question would be most unwelcome. I had noticed that he would absently inform me that he was with the law, yet when I asked for specifics he either skirted the question slyly or he would receive temporary deafness until I left him alone. I pondered over our most recent conversation. He said that he only retained information that was useful to him, but how could mere household norms not be of any use? Could his line of work be so dangerous that he had no room in his mind for mundane knowledge because he had to retain all the knowledge he needed to survive? These were the questions that continuously rotated through my own mind, and I had not the answers to satisfy my increasing curiosity.

During the first few weeks of my living at 221B Baker Street we had no callers, which proved my theory that Sherlock Holmes was friendless. Mrs Hudson had informed me of his ex-friend John, who had removed Sherlock out of his life after something that had forced Sherlock's hand, which caused him to disappear. I rather thought this selfish of the man, for if I were in his place I would have welcomed my dear friend back with open arms.

Presently, however, I could not help but notice that the male who I thought was his superior had been calling him more often, and that each time he contacted my companion, Sherlock would light up with excitement and rush out of the house. Sometimes he didn't return for days on end, and on one such occasion he had been absent for little over a week, and I was beginning to worry.

It was on the 13th of May, if I remember correctly, that we received news of his return. I had arisen earlier than was the norm for me, and Mrs Hudson had just finished a traditional English breakfast, when the thought crossed my mind that this meal was Sherlock's favourite, and he would surely have liked it had he been present. No sooner had this thought crossed my mind had the doorbell rang. And in my eagerness to discover if it was my friend, I all but ran to the front door and flung it open so violently that it slammed hard into the wall, nearly decapitating the woman in front of me.

"I am dreadfully sorry, madam!" I apologised swiftly. "I-"

"Jack Blue." She cut me off. "Am I correct in surmising that this is your name?"

"You are indeed correct." I said. "Excuse my manners, but who are you and how do you know my name?"

"I'm Sergeant Donovan." She said, and flashed a card at me. "You are to accompany me."

"You haven't even told me where yet." I frowned.

"It's classified." She smiled patronisingly. "Understand?"

"I understand that you are merely a Sergeant and that I am General Jack Harrison Blue of the British 32nd Royal Marine Division and the British 63rd Royal Naval Division." I said, equally as patronising as her. "Tell me where you want me to go. That's an order, Sergeant."

I have to admit that I enjoyed the way she paled when I told her my rank and division, for I had later learnt that many of my division had perished at the hands of our enemies, with only a few survivors.

"It's the hospital, sir." She saluted me. "A Sherlock Holmes has just been admitted-"

"Lead the way." I snapped, already striding towards the police car.

As we raced through the narrow streets of London, the Sergeant tried unsuccessfully to apologise, and while I usually would have overlooked her error, I was in a sour mood at present and not in any state to do so.

"General Blue." She stated lowly, and I merely glanced at her before peering out into the blur of colour that whipped past us. "I am sorry about before, I didn't know you were of a higher rank than me."

"A wise man once told me." I began slowly, not sparing her a second glance. "That a man is remembered not for how he treats his equals, but for how he treats his inferiors. And you have yet to earn my respect."

She was silent for the remainder of the ride, and I found that I did not care in the slightest. I was more worried about my dear friend, and of how I was going to deal with the trouble he had obviously gotten himself into. If this was how he spent his time when he went out, then I would not regret locking him in his rooms and feeding him through the cat flap with no escape until he came to his senses. He was quite a young fellow, but with his knowledge and vast intellect he should know not to get into these situations. And then another thought crossed my mind, the man had phoned which had caused Sherlock to take off, and the man was obviously his superior who had given him an order to leave. Could his job have caused this? If that was the case, and the evidence certainly seemed to point to it, then what profession could be so dangerous as to put a man such as Sherlock in hospital?


End file.
